Mr Webster
by anothernicemess
Summary: The Monkees encounter someone they never wanted to see again, for various reasons. This isn't a songfic, I swear :)
1. Chapter 1

"I'll get it!" Micky shouted, sliding down the railing of the spiral staircase. Fortunately for him, nobody was waiting at the bottom of it with a cake this time.

Peter looked up from his position at the edge of the stage, then, realizing that nothing interesting had happened, returned to strumming his banjo softly.

Micky opened the door, the smile instantly leaving his face, "Oh, hey, what do you want?"

A tall, very pale-skinned man drifted past Micky and stood just inside the pad, "I... I need to talk with you..." he blurted out, seeming to be in some pain.

Micky closed the door behind the man, but said nothing, which prompted Peter to set his banjo down and walk over to the newcomer.

"Are you alright? Would you like a glass of water or something?" As he said this, the fair-haired boy cast a disapproving look at Micky, who seemed to shrink a little.

"No... I just... just want... to explain..."

Suddenly, the man dropped to the ground. Peter knelt down beside him and started to shake him, "Mister? Mister! Micky, call an ambulance! Call a firetruck! Call anybody!"

But Micky just stood there by the door like a statue. His face could have been made of granite, and Peter turned to see why he hadn't reached for the phone.

"Mick!" he shouted frantically.

"It's too late, Peter. I think he's dead," Micky said, without any hint of emotion. Peter stood slowly, and tried to remain calm.

"Why didn't you help me?!"

"Because that's Mr. Webster," was the reply.

"Mr. Webster! But why would he come here? How did he die?"

Micky scoffed, "He couldn't die... never had a heart in the first place, so how could it suddenly stop?"

"Well, I'm going to call the police," Peter said, striding over to the red telephone. Micky reached out as if to stop him, a look of fright on his face.

"No, Pete! You - you can't do that! I mean, you shouldn't!"

"Why not?" Peter asked, becoming confused as he realized that Micky wasn't saying that to be dramatic, like he normally said things to be. He was really and truly scared.

"Peter, I told you about Mr. Webster a long time ago. Do you remember what I said?"

"Um, uh... a rose by any other pencil must be led?"

"No, Peter."

"Take time to stop and smell the roots of all evil?"

"No, Peter," Micky repeated, shaking his head. Sometimes he wished that the blond boy would pick up on things a little faster than he actually did, "Say, what's with all the stuff about flower quotes, anyways?"

"I've been learning to juggle," Peter told him, as if that explained everything.

"Oh," said Micky, not bothering to question his friend about it any further, "Well, it's like this. Everyone in town knows Mr. Webster. Well, I mean... I do, and I'm pretty sure he knows a lot of other people, too. Do you at least remember what I told you about the experiment?"

"I wish I didn't, Mick, but I do," Peter replied, sitting down beside the table and dejectedly propping his head up with a hand.

"Aw, I'm sorry, Pete. I guess I shouldn't have confided in you... after all, now you have to carry it around with you."

"I don't mind too much."

"Mr. Webster knew about it too. He seemed to know everything about me."

"Do you mean he was black-nailing you?"

"Mailing, Peter. Black_mailing._ Yes, in a way. I didn't have to pay him money, though. He had me do some things for him... terrible things, but I had to. Otherwise, he might have hurt you or Mike or Davy. I couldn't let that happen, I just couldn't."

Micky turned away and stared at Mr. Webster's body, before giving it a vicious kick, "That's for all you made me go through," he sneered, every word dripping with contempt.

"Micky!" Peter exclaimed, standing and walking quickly over to the curly-haired boy, "Micky, it's fine. He's dead and you don't have to worry anymore. But what are we going to do about him? Why won't you let me call the police?"

"They would find out about me, I'm sure of it. They would think that I killed him. I'd have so many things stacked up against me... I'm just scared, Peter."

"I know you are, Micky. But it's okay. I'm here and I know that you didn't kill him."

"I could have poisoned him earlier, knowing that I could get an alibi from you later on," Micky pointed out angrily. Peter backed away a little.

"But I believe you... and your heart. You could never kill someone."

"Like killing anyone is worse than what I did to people. I wish -"

The door of the pad opened quickly, cutting of whatever Micky was about to say, and Mike rushed a glassy-eyed Davy through the doorway, turning to shut the door. He slumped up against it and sighed in relief.

"That sure was close," Mike announced, as Peter stepped in front of Mr. Webster in a feeble attempt to hide the dead man. Mike, however, noticed this maneuver, "Say, Pete, what's that on the floor behind you?"

"Well, I, it's... it's a new rug we got for the living room, and we didn't want you to see it just yet, because, uh, it's blue, and, uh, it might stain the floor, so we were going to go have it burned - cleaned! Yeah, we were gonna have it cleaned, but the cleaner cleaned too many rosebuds, so... uh, um... Micky!" Peter wailed, having gotten the story totally mixed up.

"Yeah, you see, the cleaner likes to garden," Micky intervened hastily, "and he was watering his roses when we got there, so he told us to bring it back on Monday, when the roses wouldn't be so thirsty..."

He trailed off, realizing the attempt to fool Mike was completely hopeless. The Texan frowned and stepped to the side, in order to see what it was the two boys were hiding from him. Davy continued to stand there, giving no indication that he had heard anything. But then, he wouldn't, since he was a man in love. Again.

"For Pete's sake, guys! What did you do to him?" Mike exclaimed, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

"Nothing. He just sort of... died," Peter said lamely.

"Yeah, he knocked on the door and the second he came in... well, you see what happened," Micky added.

Mike knelt and rolled Mr. Webster, who had fallen face-first, over, with the intent to search through his pockets. Instead, however, he gasped and straightened back up.

"Did he tell you who he was?" He asked suspiciously, looking to Micky.

Micky tried to catch Peter's eye, but, for some reason, the blond refused to meet his gaze. Somehow, Mike knew Mr. Webster, too, and Peter seemed to know more than he was telling.

The blonde cleared his throat nervously, "Uh, no, Mike. Just said he wanted to talk to someone here."

Mike's face went white, and he quickly turned back to Davy, "Well, I can't worry about him right now. Davy's in love with a mobster's girlfriend. I had a hard time getting him away all in one piece."

Micky stepped over Mr. Webster's body and waved a hand in front of Davy, "Hey, Davy? Davy? There's a dead guy on our floor."

The little Englishman didn't even blink. Stars were twinkling in his eyes. Micky tried again, "Davy? Your hair is all messed up."

Davy gave a start, let out an "oh," and raced into the bathroom. Within a few seconds he was back, glaring daggers at Micky, "It is not. Why'd you 'ave to go an' say that to a poor fella, never did you no wrong?"

"Because he had to snap you out of it, Davy. We've got ourselves a little situation here... y'see, there's this man that's - "

"Well, if 'e's botherin' you, call the bloomin' cops!" Davy said, obviously irritated.

"Only flowers bloom," Peter remarked, and received a playful punch on the arm from Micky.

"This is a serious matter, man. He's dead," Micky said, indicating Mr. Webster's motionless figure. Davy let out a yelp.

"What the bloody 'ell 'appened to 'im?! Why 'asn't anybody called the police?" He exclaimed, examining Mr. Webster without having to lean over. There were advantages to being short.

Suddenly, Davy took a step backwards. In his scrutiny of the deceased man, he had recognized the familiar features of someone he had hoped to never see again.

"Get 'im out of 'ere," he demanded, narrowing his eyes, "Don't call anybody. Just get 'im out of 'ere."

"But, Davy..." Peter protested. Mike held up a hand to stop him.

"Listen, guys. I don't think we should do anythin' just yet. Let's just sit on this fer a little while."

The others looked confused, but nodded in agreement.

"Sounds like a plan. Meanwhile, I've, uh, got to go see my sick aunt. Oh, she's dying. I haven't seen her in years, and I've got to go see her. I'll be back in a bit. Bye!" Micky announced, dashing out the door. As he watched Micky leave, Peter thought he remembered an incident awhile back involving Micky's aunt, but he couldn't quite grasp what had happened. Maybe that "seductive memory" thing was happening to him. He shrugged and went back to his banjo, forgetting for the time being that Mr. Webster even existed.

Davy stormed upstairs into the bedroom and slammed the door, but Mike, long after everyone had dispersed from around the body, remained where he was, staring at Mr. Webster and wondering how bad things would get from that point on.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Babbitt pounded on the door again, "Boys! I know you're in there! You guys owe me three months rent!"

"What's wrong with the closet?" Peter whispered, desperately clutching Mr. Webster's feet in his hands.

"Peter, we don't _have _a closet!" Micky shot back in an equally low tone, grimacing as Mr. Webster's head dropped closer to the ground.

"Put him in the bathroom!" Mike suggested, and the other two boys followed his order. When Peter had firmly closed the door of the bathroom, blocking out any sight of the corpse that was lying on the floor within, Micky bounded to the door and opened it wide.

"Sorry, Mr. Babbitt, we were just hiding a dead body."

Their landlord rolled his eyes and let loose with a deep sigh, "Just quit the monkey business and give me what you owe me."

"But we already payed you!" Peter said, attempting to lean casually against the wall but hitting his head off of it instead, "Ow..."

"That was for May," Mr. Babbitt growled. Mike held up a hand.

"No need to get so durn nasty. Look, we'll get you the money as soon as we manage to get a job. You know we always pay you," the boy drawled.

"Someday you're going to come to pay me and I'm going to have died from old age," the older man muttered, then abruptly stormed out, calling back over his shoulder, "One week! If I don't have the money by then, I'm going to throw you out. This time, I mean it!"

"Gee, what a nice guy. He's all heart," Micky remarked, slumping down onto the couch, while Mike merely hopped over the back of it and settled himself next to Micky. Peter left his position by the bathroom and joined them, taking a seat in his favorite chair.

"Hey, fellas? We've got to do something about Mr. Webster. And Davy, too, for that matter," he said, casting a worried glance at the closed bedroom door. It had been nearly two hours... what could the boy possibly be doing in there?

"Yeah, but what, man? It's not like we can call the cops or anything."

"Wait, why do you say that? Why can't we call the cops?" Mike inquired, sensing that there was something going on which he was quite unaware of.

Peter squirmed in his seat, "Uh, because they're closed on Saturdays."

"They are not!" said Mike, cracking a smile before focusing his gaze on Micky, "Seriously, now. Why don't you want to call them?"

"I know him. I'm scared they might think I killed him," was all the curly-haired boy would explain.

"Hold on just a minute, you know him? I do too. What about you, Pete?"

"No, I... I don't know him."

Micky narrowed his eyes, "Are you sure?"

"Well, maybe I... I met him awhile back..." Peter replied, staring at the floor.

"Peter..." Mike said slowly, "Come on, out with it."

The blond sniffled, "Alright, alright. Valerie - she knew him, and he came around one time when we were together at her house. I don't think she liked him very much."

"I don't blame her," the other two boys said in unison, then looked at each other quizzically. Micky clasped his hands together and rested them on his lap, "Why don't you blame her, Mike?"

Mike didn't answer right away. Instead, he pulled off his wool hat and examined it like he didn't know what it was for a couple minutes. Finally, he spoke, "He knew some things about me and used them to his advantage, is all."

"Me too, man. I don't know how he found out."

"I bet he had something on Davy, too. Did you see the way that guy acted?" Peter said, looking again towards the bedroom. Mike nodded.

"I'm gonna go see if I can get him to come out or somethin'," the Texan announced, standing.

"Yeah, good idea," Micky replied, as Mike ascended the staircase to the second floor. He knocked on the door softly, at the same time calling out, "Davy?"

"Go away," was the response that greeted Mike. He sighed.

"Davy, I just want to talk."

"Well, I don't."

"Fine, then I'll just have to do enough for the both of us. Y'see, we've been conversin' out here, and if you knew Mr. Webster, then it's okay to tell us. I knew him, and Micky knew him, and Peter did, too. He's not just your problem."

The door opened, and Davy poked his head out, "'ere, you're not jus' pullin' me leg, are you?"

"No, man, I'm not pullin' your leg. Come on downstairs and tell us about it."

Davy reluctantly allowed Mike to lead him down the stairs and over to the couch, where the taller boy motioned for Davy to sit.

Taking a seat, Davy sighed and began to talk, "I probably should 'ave told you fellas along time ago, but I jus' couldn't bring myself to. Y'see, I used t' be pretty crooked."

Peter gave him a warm smile, "It's alright now, Davy. You look pretty normal to me."

"Oh, Petah, not that kind of crooked. I mean, I rode fixed races. Mr. Webster... that guy knew everythin' about me. I don't know how, but 'e did, and 'e threatened to tell me grandfather, so I had to keep payin' 'im off. I'm sorry I kept it from you... it was wrong of me, I know." As he talked, Davy lowered his head and looked at the ground, refusing to meet anybody's gaze. Micky reached over and rested his hand on Davy's shoulder.

"Hey, man, don't let it get you down. I haven't been completely open with you guys either, I'm afraid," he said with a sigh.

Mike settled himself onto the arm of Peter's chair and crossed his arms, "Just what were you bein' blackmailed for, then?"

"Look, I'm not proud of what I did. It doesn't make me happy to say that I blinded someone. Just because it was an accident doesn't mean it's okay," the curly-haired boy snapped bitterly, quickly snatching his hand away from Davy.

Mike registered surprise, then cast a sidelong glance at Peter. The bassist's face was completely devoid of any emotion, and Mike nudged him, "Did you know, Pete?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Peter responded in an equally soft tone, "I did. I knew about all of you."

Davy stood up and began to pace, "So, what are we gonna do, fellas? I mean, we can't jus' leave 'im in the bathroom forever..."

"I figure there's only one thing to do, and that's the right one. Look, none of us killed him, right? We shouldn't be afraid of anything. Let's call the cops," Mike said.

Peter jumped to his feet, knocking Mike off the arm of the chair in the process. The Texan glared at him and settled back down into his previous position.

"How do I know that one of you didn't kill him? Micky said that he could have poisoned him before he was with me."

Micky gave a cry of alarm, "Peter! I was only kidding!"

"Man, even Peter thinks we're guilty."

Looking towards Mike, Peter shook his head, "I don't think you're guilty. I just don't see how you could possibly be innocent."

Davy stopped pacing and tapped Peter on the shoulder, "'ey, that's no good. You've already used that line before."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Even though their present situation was not exactly a good one, Mike couldn't help but smile. Maybe everything would be fine in the end, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

"- well, y'see, it wasn't really a murder. For sure, I mean. He could have died from natural causes - NATURAL CAUSES, I SAID. But we don't think he did. You should - I SAID WE DON'T THINK HE DIED FROM NATURAL CAUSES. If you could send somebody over to 1334 North Beechwood Drive... yeah, in Malibu - MALIBU. M-A... um, L-I-B-O-O. Yeah, that would be great, thank you."

Peter hung up the phone and turned to face the other boys, who were nervously leaning against the spiral staircase, "I think she needed a hearing-ear dog."

"What?" Micky made the mistake of asking, then waved his hands in the air vigorously, "Never mind, never mind, I don't wanna know. What time will the cops get here?"

"Um, I think she said they'd be here within the hour. Or maybe it was outside the hour. The perimeter of an hour? Area. I can't remember now. Sorry, Mick," Peter said with a sheepish grin. Micky rolled his eyes, chuckling to himself.

"Hey, man, it's fine. You were focusing on getting through to her. But what do we do now, just wait?"

Mike shrugged and sat down at the kitchen table, "I guess so."

"I hate waiting," Micky muttered, plopping himself into the chair next to Mike. Davy, who had been silent during the whole course of the conversation, laughed and crossed his arms.

"And the award for 'understatement of the year' goes to Micky Dolenz!" he announced with a smile.

_Now, since I wouldn't dream of making Micky wait..._

An hour later, there was a knock on the door, which Peter went to open, after peeking out to see who it was. A red-haired man in a gray suit strolled into the pad, a friendly expression on his face.

"Hullo there. This is 1334 North Beechwood, yes? I'm Hector Patterson, but it's Inspector Patterson to you. Where's the body?"

All four boys broke into tiny flurries of giggles, much to the irritation of the Inspector. He adopted an unamused look and crossed his arms, sighing, "Yes, my name is Hector. If you must, call me Inspector Hector, but please don't burst out laughing each time you say it. Will that make you happy? Now, show me where this Mr. Webster is, please. I've got a job to do."

"Alright, Inspector Hector! Step right this way for the main attraction!" Micky crowed, hopping over to the Inspector and grabbing his wrist. He led the other man into the bathroom, where Mr. Webster lay in a heap on the floor.

Inspector Patterson raised a suspicious eyebrow, "This is where he kicked the bucket?"

"Uh, no, officer, inspector, sir. 'e croaked over by the door," Davy piped up, and the Inspector seemed to notice him for the first time.

"And who are you, then? Come to think of it, who the devil are any of you?"

Peter pointed to Micky, "That's Davy, and he's Micky, and he's Peter, and I'm Mike. No, wait a minute. _That's _Micky, and _he's _Davy, and _he's _Mike, and _I'm _Peter," he said, a proud smile lighting up his face. Inspector Patterson snorted derisively.

"Sure, kid, and the cow jumped over the moon. Who are you, really?"

"Well, Inspector, he just told you who we all are. Man, don't you trust anybody?" Mike asked, wondering how someone could get to be so wary of other people. The Inspector shook his head.

"It's my business not to trust people. Let's see... you must have touched the body, then?"

Mike, Micky, and Peter exchanged worried looks, while Davy grinned smugly. He hadn't been foolish enough to lay a hand on Mr. Webster, but _they _had. Micky cleared his throat, which didn't help one bit, as his voice still squeaked when he spoke.

"Uh, we m-might have. Is that a problem?"

Inspector Hector sighed, "It could be, eventually. That means you're all currently suspects, and I'll have to ask each of you for your fingerprints."

"I've always wanted a star in Hollywood," Peter mused.

"Are you gonna arrest us? Will we have to stay in a jail cell? Ooooh, are you going to interrogate us?" Micky asked excitedly, his eyes shining. The Inspector merely glared at him, rolled his eyes, then dropped to his knees and looked over Mr. Webster.

"If went to jail, at least we'd 'ave three square meals a day and a permanent roof over our 'eads," muttered Davy, who was paying close attention to what the Inspector was doing.

"Oh, yeah, it would seem like paradise compared to here, in our groovy little pad. Who needs freedom?" Mike remarked sarcastically, while thinking to himself, _has Davy completely lost it or something? We've been doin' pretty good for ourselves as of late..._

"I don't want to go to jail, Mike," Peter whimpered. He gave Mike his very best puppy-dog eyes, silently pleading with the Texan to keep him away from any jail cells. Mike nodded reassuringly, but said nothing.

"Relax, nobody is going anywhere. At least, not yet. Er, if you'd all take a seat in the living room, and let me poke around...?"

The four boys obediently filed out of the bathroom, leaving Inspector Patterson with the body. They collapsed upon the couch and began to chatter in hushed voices, not wishing to disturb, or be overheard by, the Inspector.

Mike was all for coming clean, but Davy and Micky just couldn't bring themselves to do so. Peter, for the most part, kept his mouth shut, only intervening when he thought the debate was becoming too heated.

"But, listen! If we tell him all about everythin', then he'll know we aren't tryin' to hide stuff from him. If he finds it out later, he might be a lot more suspicious. We'd only be makin' it easier for us later on by tellin' him," Mike argued. Davy shrugged, and Micky's curls bounced around his head as he shook it violently.

"No way, babe. You can incriminate yourself if you want to, but I'd rather not risk it. At least give it some time. He may find evidence that points him to someone else before he finds any that leads him to us."

"I'm with Micky," said Davy, picking at a tear in the couch. He was merely using it as an excuse so that he wouldn't have to look at Mike. He knew that if he did look, he wouldn't be able to disagree with the wool-hat-wearing boy.

Peter sighed and, after a lengthy pause, began to speak, forgetting to keep his voice down low, "Look, I know you guys are worried that you'll be falsely accused and all that, but if you're innocent, then you shouldn't be. Inspector," here he smiled amusedly, then continued, "Inspector Patterson probably isn't as dumb as you think he is - take it from someone who knows. Let him investigate, and I'm sure that he'll find the murderer in due time, if there even is one."

Before anyone could respond, the Inspector called to them from where he stood in the doorway of the bathroom, "And why should you be worried about false accusations?"

_Hi, there, you who have read this :) I won't have the next chapter up for a little while, since I've got some catchin' up to do in school, but don't worry, I'll keep plugging away. Peace! _


End file.
